Not a Janus Mask

Not a Janus Mask.

Drank wine and was dizzy for day, the African mask
on the wall, woke to life, drumbeat, coconut oil and
rum, said it was guys like me, Nordic missionary types,
who had robbed him of dignity, land and language.

“But I have never been to Africa.” “Doesn’t matter
you are guilty by your society’s insensitivities to other
cultures, and as you are a European, also anti Semitic,
especially if you criticize Israel.

“I resent what you said, but I defend your right to say
it,” I uttered and offered the mask a glass of wine;
which it declined, but whispered, under my breath,
that it is difficult to be racial offensive to someone
who is confident and proud of his ancestors travail.

“That remark shows how little you understand,” said
the mask and spoke no more. Soundless, empty eyes,
black as night, a soul had spoken, but not in vain.